


The Start of Something Beautiful

by Blacktablet (Ishamaeli)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Unrequited Love, major angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishamaeli/pseuds/Blacktablet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>RDJ!Holmes finally gets desperate enough to tell Watson how he feels about him, sometime horrifically close to Watson's impending wedding. -- Watson already knew. And that's why he's leaving.</i> (<a href="RDJ!Holmes finally gets desperate enough to tell Watson how he feels about him, sometime horrifically close to Watson's impending wedding. -- Watson already knew. And that's why he's leaving.">prompt</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Start of Something Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Written to Porcupine Tree's marvellous album, Deadwing.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Messieurs Holmes and Watson are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s brilliant inventions but public domain nowadays.

The subtly sweet smell of his tobacco hangs heavy in the air. God only knows how many pipes Holmes smoked, pacing their - his - _the_ cluttered sitting room _(ten steps from door to window, have to turn on the eleventh step to avoid collision with the wall)_ as he awaited Watson's return. Later Mrs Hudson will undoubtedly present him with a strong opinion about the way her wallpapers have been steadily yellowing over the past years, but that is neither here nor there. Very few things are; Holmes's universe that usually consists of minute things making up men and their motives now only holds one man, and there is nothing minute about him.

 _"I'm sure that you recall my recent actions which, I must admit, have proved to be a considerable hindrance to your courting Miss Morstan and, following that, arranging first your engagement to her and then the... inevitable."_

The man in question is standing stock still in the middle of the room, his cane in one hand and his hat in the other. His grip of the cane is strong, secure where sturdy fingers curl around the carved head made of foreign wood that has travelled thousands of miles to end up supporting a man of such fine character. The hat, Holmes knows, is nothing out of the ordinary, merely an accessory acquired from a local tailor on a whim _(bought immediately after return from Afghanistan, likely to have cost a florin rather than the usual market price)_ but it has served its owner well.

 _"You are well aware by now that I have an inquisitive mind and that, whenever I'm presented with a problem, I must dig deep into its source. I cannot resist solving it. This is precisely what happened, Watson; I found myself with a problem and could not simply step back and_ not _solve it."_

Outside, a hansom cab passes beneath the window. The cab's wheels rattle on the cobblestones and its driver shouts out a curse, undoubtedly directed at some less fortunate person who has managed to run into the cab's path. The horses neigh, alarmed, as the driver violently pulls their reins to halt them and avoid crushing some poor idiot under their hooves. The cab stops; the driver curses some more; the sounds of commotion gradually fade away.

Holmes notices none of this.

 _"There was no previous knowledge for me to make use of--rather, what knowledge I had was utterly useless to me in explaining certain changes in behaviour. I had to gather new data and to do that, I had to conduct an experiment."_

Surely, the silence has lasted long enough? Should his heart beat any faster, he might suffer from some sort of an acute malady, a simple heart failure or perhaps an aneurysm. His palms feel clammy inside his jacket pockets and he keeps swallowing repeatedly even though his throat is like parchment _(compulsive, every three seconds; a nervous reaction)_. He hasn't blinked for two minutes because he is afraid that if he does, he will miss something crucial, something that is essential to his continued existence.

 _"Several experiments, in fact, all more or less successful. But that is of no matter! What matters here is that the results fully supported my hypothesis. You see, Watson, I had no alternative but to keep you from marrying until I had finished my experiments because my hypothesis... my hypothesis..."_

He doesn't know how to continue from there.

"Holmes."

Deciding that the best course of action is, as always, diving in headlong, he straightens his back and briskly continues, "While this may come as a surprise to you, my dear Watson, I've been forced to come to the conclusion that I--"

 _"Holmes."_

The sheer desperation in Watson's voice makes Holmes's rambling come to a sharp end, and he narrows his eyes as he reconsiders the ex-soldier standing stiffly in front of him.

Holmes sees the way Watson has oh-so-slightly raised his left foot from the floor, turned his body to the right, gripped his cane so tightly his knuckles have paled; sees the crease between Watson's eyebrows, the tightening of his jaw, the unhappy turn of his lips; sees how Watson refuses to meet his gaze, how he several times opens his mouth to say something but doesn't, how his eyes close when he finally gives a deep sigh.

He observes every one of these things perfectly, accurately, as is, and wishes that he could not.

"Holmes, I know."

The words steal his breath away.

"I've known for a while."

They make him feel light-headed, like every nerve of his body is tingling.

"That's why I'm leaving. I can't... I can't live here like that. Knowing that."

He shudders. "Of course," he finds himself saying quickly, "of course, old boy, you are quite right. It is certainly not befitting a man of your status. You have your... reputation to consider, unlike me who am known as an incurable bohemian throughout the city. Who knows, maybe even Lestrade has managed to piece together the small clues I have no doubt left lying about, the careless fool that I am, and tomorrow, or perhaps next week he shall--"

"Holmes, please, I understand that--"

"John," he lets out as a shuddering gasp, and it's the first and the last time he is permitted such an intimacy and oh, how bittersweet its taste. " _Don't_."

Watson hears the warning in his tone and quiets, lets Holmes get himself together in peace. They stare at each other, evaluating and remembering, both wondering if they could have somehow avoided this completely. The air between them is thick with things that will go forever unsaid; it is for time to tell whether this is for the best.

When Holmes can speak again he only says, "I think it would be best if you left now."

"Of course," Watson replies with something awfully close to pity. "Of course."

After he is gone, Holmes opens the windows to the street and lets himself drown in the cacophony of sounds.


End file.
